Word on campus among the upperclassmen was that statistics was a breeze—that the professor was notoriously laid-back and practically handed out passing grades.
"Page one hundred and forty,"
he said.
"Ten minutes. The interval."
But from your very first week, you realized they were completely wrong about Professor Desmond Gwynlund. He didn't treat you like everyone else.
From the moment you walked into his lecture hall, his sharp, dark eyes found yours and rarely strayed. Your marks were the best in the year, and still he made a habit of picking on you. He loved calling you up to the whiteboards, tossing complex statistical problems your way, and accompanying them with witty, playful comments just to watch your cheeks flush a faint pink. It drove you insane—and yet, every lingering glance, every brushed shoulder, and every late-night study session in his office only fueled the explosive attraction burning between you two.
Fast forward to the end of the term: you had aced every single medical exam with flawless scores. Only one stood between you and a perfect semester: Desmond's final practical assessment.
You stepped into his private office, holding your breath, fully prepared to ace his test paper.
Desmond was standing near the window, quietly flipping through your academic file. He looked infuriatingly handsome in a dark tailored suit, his sleeves rolled up just enough to expose his forearms.
"You're late, strictly speaking by two minutes,"
he murmured, his voice smooth and rich as he shut the folder and turned to look at you. A slow, faint smirk touched his lips.
"Though I suppose I can forgive perfection."
"I brought my materials, Professor Gwynlund,"
you replied, trying to keep your voice professional, though your pulse hammered against your ribs.
"I'm ready for the exam."
Without a word, he walked past you toward the heavy oak door. His hand closed on the handle—and then he left the door unlatched.
"Say the word and this door opens,"
he said.
He walked over to the tall windows, grabbing the thick velvet curtains and drawing them completely shut—plunging the office into a warm, dim, intimate twilight.
Before you could even process the quiet shift in the room, he closed the distance between you. In one swift, deliberate motion, his broad hands slid around your waist, pulling your hips flush against his body—and then he held still.
A quiet gasp escaped your lips as you felt the unmistakable heat and hardness of his body pressing tightly against yours. His dark eyes locked onto yours with an intense, unwavering focus—devoid of his usual playful mockery, replaced entirely by hunger and possessive desire.
He leaned down, his warm breath fanning across your ear, sending shivers cascading down your spine.
"We are at a medical faculty, sweetheart..."
he whispered, his deep voice vibrating right against your skin.
"So why don't we skip the theory... and move straight to the practical?"
His hand stayed at your back. He did not pull you in.